Steady and True
by Youarethelightoftheworld
Summary: Sherlock can envision a small boy with sandy blonde hair, small and shivering, sent to his room with no more than an exasperated sigh and a feeble promise to check on him later. What must it have been like for John, who shared his feelings almost as infrequently as Sherlock himself, to be left alone in a time of need?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock is lost.

Earlier that morning, he had watched his best friend shuffle into the flat after a 12-hour shift at the clinic, looking even worse than when he had fallen into the Thames during their last case. By the looks of it, John had barely made it up the stairs without toppling over.

Sherlock has always prided himself on his ability to stay detached, but seeing John in such a state had set off a full range of unpleasant emotions. Panic, fear, pity, confusion, affection. He'd quickly buried his face behind a book in order to avoid being discovered in such a fragile state.

After entering the flat, John had promptly swallowed three pills and an entire glass of water, thrown himself into his chair, and dozed off. Sherlock reasoned that it wouldn't do to let John sleep there, lest he begin to snore and disrupt his work. So it had simply made sense to gently nudge John's sleeping form into a upright position, grasp him firmly around the waist, and lead him slowly but surely to the closest bed. Which just happened to be his own. And if John's head somehow ended up tucked against Sherlock's neck, well, that was just how gravity worked, wasn't it?

And so, that was how Sherlock found himself perched on the edge of his bed, checking John's pulse ten times in a row (in order to get an accurate reading, of course) and watching his chest rise and fall. His book remains on his chair, abandoned, and the timer for his latest experiment rings incessantly in the kitchen, waiting for him to continue on to the next step.

_One more minute, _he thinks, reaching forward to tuck the blankets snugly around John's sleeping form. _Just one more._

* * *

As a young child, John had often been ill. He'd told Sherlock all about his childhood during one of their stakeouts, as the sun set and a chill settled in their bones. They had huddled together for hours, expressing intimacy in the form of stories that had never before been spoken aloud, but saying nothing of their physical closeness. Sherlock can remember the hollow look in John's eyes as he spoke of isolation, resentment, and parents who rarely showed him affection. He can envision a small boy with sandy blonde hair, small and shivering, sent to his room with no more than an exasperated sigh and a feeble promise to check on him later. As a boy, Sherlock had been doted upon, and illnesses had been met with an unnecessary amount of overbearing love. What must it have been like for John, who shared his feelings almost as infrequently as Sherlock himself, to be left alone in a time of need? The thought fills Sherlock with an inexplicable amount of rage for the parents who neglected the man now sleeping restlessly in his bed. John is frowning slightly in his sleep, and heat radiates from him, even as he grips the blankets tightly around his trembling form.

Two hours have passed, and Sherlock has moved from his spot only once, dashing into the kitchen and tossing the timer out the window before the sound can disturb John. He has no idea what to do next, but leaving John's side is not a valid option.

"Hnf."

Sherlock snaps to attention, focusing on John's fluttering eyelids. They open slowly, and John begins to take in his surroundings.

"Ow."

"Oh, god. What hurts, John? Can you speak? Can you move? Tell me in exact terms what is ailing you."

"Sherlock? Hey, s'okay, just…feels like a fever, and my _head_…wait, are we in your room?"

"Yes, John, that's not important. Now tell me – what can I do for you? John?"

Sherlock's voice turns frantic as John's eyes become dazed and distant.

"Smells like you," whispers John, turning his face into Sherlock's pillow.

And then he loses consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

John awakens underneath a dripping faucet.

He reexamines that thought and realizes that it's just Sherlock hovering over him, frozen in fear and holding a wet flannel.

John lets his eyes drift shut.

"JOHN, YOU CANNOT DO THAT."

John jumps, surprised by the terror in his friend's voice.

"Do…what?"

"WHAT YOU JUST DID."

"Oh, alright then."

John drowsily prepares himself for more outbursts, but Sherlock seems to be deflating before his eyes. He exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging, and reaches forward.

"Here, John." Sherlock wipes the flannel across John's forehead, so gently that John can barely feel it. And yet, it brings him immediate relief. Sherlock continues, his eyes unusually bright, until an involuntary shiver makes its way through John's body.

"Are you cold?"

"Y-yes. My feet are like ice. But it's f-fine, Sherlock, really–"

Sherlock scrambles from the bed and disappears from John's sight. Suddenly, the blankets are ripped away from his feet. John looks towards the foot of the bed, confused and disoriented, and finds Sherlock clutching a pair of socks.

It should be comical. John should be laughing at the focused look on Sherlock's face. He should sit up and do…something.

Instead, he simply watches as Sherlock carefully places a sock on each foot, pausing to stroke his thumb once, twice, three times across John's left ankle.

When Sherlock looks up, his eyes are filled with sorrow.

* * *

"Sherlock?" hushes John. "What is it?"

Sherlock's gives him a small, quivering smile. "I just want to be sure that you are okay, John."

"Oh, Sherlock," says John, pushing himself up into a seated position. "It's just a fever, I promise. I'm sure I will be better by tomorrow. You're probably anxious to get back to whatever experiment you were working on this morning, right? Go on, I'll be fine by myself."

"Absolutely not! You are in pain, and I refuse to leave you. That – I won't do that to you, John."

Sherlock looks just as surprised by his outburst as John, and his face flushes in embarrassment when he realizes what he has said. In response, John shifts to the side, wincing slightly, and pats the space beside him.

Sherlock clambers towards him, settling against the bed and facing John. He stares down at his clasped hands.

"You remember the stories that I told you, Sherlock?" asks John, looking pleasantly surprised.

"Of course," huffs Sherlock, with a touch of his usual bravado. "I remember everything of importance, John."

John laughs quietly. "Well, here is something of great importance, then. Something I should have told you a long time ago. I was a lonely child…in fact, I have been lonely for most of my life. But I haven't felt that way since the moment I met you, Sherlock. You've shown me what it means to be cared for, and I owe you so much for that."

Sherlock stares, his eyes full of disbelief. "But, John, it is you who cares for me," he insists.

"We take care of each other, Sherlock. If I'm sure of anything, it's that I know you, and you are not the sociopath you claim to be."

Sherlock looks uncertain. "Well, I did say that I was high-functioning," he says sheepishly.

John lets out a burst of laughter that quickly transforms into a cough, and Sherlock moves forward immediately to help him settle back against the pillows. When he moves to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table, John holds him back, clutching Sherlock's hand to his chest. Sherlock can feel the beating of John's heart, steady and true, and he closes his eyes to measure the pulse.

When he opens them again, John is watching, fighting to keep his eyes open and witness the act.

"Sleep now, John," whispers Sherlock. "It's alright. I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

Hours later, John opens his eyes. True to his word, Sherlock remains at his side, stretched out on the bed beside him. For one small moment, a look of uncertainty passes over his face, as if he is unsure whether or not his presence is welcome.

John moves forward and brushes a curl off of his forehead.

"Thank you," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock smiles.

One more minute, he thinks, reaching forward to pull John close. One more minute, and then I will get up and make John tea.


End file.
